Page 3 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

STORM

W hen other people are stressed, they might drink or do drugs. Maybe pop a Xan or go get fucked up in a club or at a house party.

For me? Stress only leaves my body if I’m fucking or fighting, which is why I have a wet and willing pussy, or two, in my bed on any given day, and I walk around with split knuckles after each Friday night’s underground fight.

And due to the nature of who I am—the son of the revered Black financial titan Chuck Sandoval—heir apparent to the Stratos legacy, I don’t have time to fuck around. My stress relief has to be efficient.

Studies and work—only the money-generating kind, of course—come first in the Sandoval household.

But today, after spending too much time after Hansen’s class looking for one curly-haired goddess in a frilly skirt, a cascade effect of late arrivals and sudden requests for appearances means that, much to my everlasting agitation, stress relief is nowhere in sight.

“Fuck,” I grumble into my water goblet. Water, because Daddy Dearest commanded it.

He’s always commanding shit.

As Lucielle De Luca’s squealing laugh pings off the Waterford wine glasses, I conclude that if there is a God, He’s surely sent me to the bottom of Hell. Raw-dogging this mind-numbing display of money and class has me wanting to fling myself into the Chicago River.

“Dear god, Mother.” Bambi stands close to me where we’ve taken up residence near the unlit fireplace in my parents’ estate. The ornate mantle spans at least twenty feet, and the fireplace height exceeds the grandeur of the thousand-year-old redwood I just set my glass on.

I hope the condensation leaves a stain. Preferably in the shape of a middle finger.

“Massimo will get her soon,” I mutter back, leaning on the mantle. I bring the glass to my lips, taking another slow sip as I examine the dining hall. Dinner just ended, and after four glasses of cab, Bambi’s mother is, to put it lightly, fucked up.

Typical behavior for her, which is likely why Bambi’s father, Massimo, doesn’t bring her to social events often.

It’s the cardinal rule of Chicago high society: Drink, do drugs, fuck who or what you want, but don’t get caught in public.

Lucielle De Luca long ago stopped giving a fuck about those rules, though.

“I just want to know why I’m here, Bee,” I mutter, and Bambi puts her delicate hand on my forearm. As she has since we were kids, she manages to calm me down so I don’t pop off on everyone within range.

I only had two hours to prepare for this last-minute dinner meeting, required by my father, with no reason for said meeting given.

Maybe Daddy-o will announce his succession plan.

I clench my free hand into a fist when a fiery jolt of adrenaline rushes through me, making my hands shake—a surprising emotion, seeing as I’ve got well over the therapeutic amount of Xanax in my system to keep—get?—me calm.

At least it’s prescribed.

“You know, just like everyone else, when Chuck Sandoval calls, you drop everything and come.” She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth, a move she often does when she’s nervous.

Of course, my father’s assistant gave the directive, rather than the man himself. But still, his loyal servant wasn’t feeling open to divulging any details about this meet-up over the phone.

Outside the window, lightning cracks across the sky before a low rumble of thunder sounds a few seconds later.

Bambi’s hand on my forearm brings me back to the room—the soft classical music from the quartet in the corner, the movement of the servers as they weave in and out of the group of two dozen people—each with a minimum net worth of a hundred million dollars.

“Storm,” she says, “you okay?”

I hate that expression on her face.

I’ve seen it before entirely too many times, but most notably, I saw that same look when she stared up at me the one and only time we had sex. Despite knowing each other forever, we crossed the line and hooked up.

The morning after, we decided we were better off as friends.

Plus, no matter how close the Sandovals are with the De Lucas, it would take an act of God, or a whole helluva lot of money, for Massimo De Luca to accept his precious Bambina, princess to one of the most prominent Chicago crime families, being with a Black man—even if the princess in question happens to be half-Black herself.

It’s a strange situation, and it would hurt more if I cared. But I don’t.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” I crack my head from side to side, trying to release the tension in my neck. My muscles bunch up anyway when the trademark booming Chuck Sandoval laugh ricochets around the room.

My father stands next to my uncle, Lakeland, forming a tight circle with the senator from Illinois and Trance Jackson, a tech mogul who just released a new engine for electric cars.

These are the kind of men I was born to emulate. The kind of man I’m expected to become.

Stand up straight. Use proper English. Cut your hair short so they don’t see the kinks. Keep your voice calm so they don’t fear your anger.

I take in their polished suits and smooth, practiced smiles. All of it feels so shallow. No one here challenges anything—but why would they? They benefit from the broken systems created for them, moving along with the status quo like it’s gospel.

The status quo that I’m inherently on the outside of yet still required to abide by.

Looking around the room, taking in the faces of people who don’t look like me—who smile in my face while spitting on my shoes—I’m filled with disgust. This needs to change. I can change this.

When I’m in charge of Stratos Wealth Fund, I won’t just make money for our investors. I’ll use their money for good . I’ll turn this world upside down, make them eat their prejudice, and clean up shop on my way through.

I scan the entitled and complacent crowd. There are more than a trillion dollars in net worth standing around this room, spread across people who have nothing better to do than buy another yacht or fund their fifth vacation home.

That money could build schools, open shelters, create opportunities for the people left out of their glossy world. But for now, it’s just numbers to them.

And that disgust burns deeper, hardening into resolve.

Corporations have the power to change and save the world—from social justice down to our dying planet.

There just needs to be people who give a fuck.

A flash of my Econ class this morning distracts me from the scene. In it, I see rich brown skin and sharp brown eyes that harden as they look at me rather than soften, as so many women’s do.

I see her—Shae Rivers—calling me out on my bullshit and challenging my beliefs.

I see her giving me the finger, and us using that finger to change the look on her face.

Fucking focus, Sandoval.

And tonight, maybe, my father will finally make good on his years of training—his years of pushing me to the brink and beyond, reminding me over and over who I am—or who he needs me to be. All he has to do is say it. Just one sentence to seal my future.

One sentence to finally tell me I’ve done enough to meet his standards.

Bambi nudges me, her eyes following mine to where my father and Lakeland are deep in conversation.

“They look serious,” she murmurs.

I snort.

“They always look serious.” But my jaw clenches as I watch them.

They’re laughing, yes, but there’s something tight in the way my father’s shoulders rise, the way his fingers tap the rim of his whiskey glass.

Lakeland’s attention flickers my way for just a second before returning to my father, his mouth curving in a near smirk.

A server glides past, and Bambi swipes two champagne flutes, handing one to me.

“Calm down,” she whispers, as if she can read the tension in my posture, feel the heat creeping up my neck.

I take the glass but don’t drink. I’m not here to sip champagne and mingle. I’m here to prove a point. And maybe tonight, my father will see it, too.

Suddenly, my father’s voice rises above the din, pulling all eyes toward him. I straighten, pulse pounding in my ears.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention!”

He clinks his glass, flashing that charming Sandoval smile that’s won over politicians and CEOs alike.

Beside him, Lakeland gives me a steady, unreadable look, and for a split second, I feel like I’m fourteen again, watching my father dazzle a room while I linger on the sidelines, hoping to catch his eye.

But tonight’s different.

Or at least, it better be.

“Thank you all for gathering here tonight. Not that we need an excuse to celebrate, but we certainly have one. Trance Enterprise has had a record Q2, with a cool sixty-five billion added to the bottom line. Trance, we’re all gonna be eating good for a little while.”

A low rush of laughter spreads across the room, adding another layer to the consistent drum of my heartbeat between my ears.

“But many of you have been wondering about the elephant in the room…when exactly is this old man gonna retire?” He looks sheepish, patting his chest as he looks at the crowd.

He appears relaxed; I feel like I’m about to pop a blood vessel.

“Well, while I have officially announced my five-year unwinding plan, I have not announced my successor.”

The hum around the room quiets, and Bambi moves closer to me, putting her hand on my shoulder.

“As you all know, I am a family man,” he says. “And after watching and waiting, I finally feel confident and comfortable in naming who will be stepping into place.”

The room around my father goes fuzzy so all I can see is him.

But then, the marbled floor disappears beneath my feet like a trap door when he claps a hand on his younger brother’s back, beaming from ear to ear as he says the most horrendous words he’s ever uttered.

“My brother, Lakeland Sandoval, is the man who you can all trust to not only protect your investments but grow them as well.”

He lifts his champagne glass, and the others do the same. “To the future of Stratos Wealth Fund!”